


Enflame

by WintermoonTyger



Series: Second person collective [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Gold & Silver & Crystal | Pokemon Gold Silver Crystal Versions
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fundoshi, M/M, POV Second Person, mentions of body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintermoonTyger/pseuds/WintermoonTyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the present, it's like a weapon and occasionally you use it as one.</p><p>--</p><p>Falkner's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enflame

The summer doesn't really agree with him, and you don't fault him for that. His preference is autumn, then winter (the beauty, the lonely quiet), while yours is spring (the return), and you think summer is far more tolerable than the winter (but you don't dislike it). He burns red in the heat, and it's not the good burn of their relationship. It does not reflect well for his preferred fashion either, but you not so secretly like when he is showing more skin. On the other hand, he's not fond of casually showing his body off, for a hundred reasons you understand, and perhaps one you do not.

You are an entirely different creature. You work under the sun, you darken under the sun. And for all your hang-ups, modesty of the body is not one of them. The best part of summer is it is acceptable to be as close to naked as environment allows for. And when you cannot be completely nude, it had to be something airy, or you would suffer.

The first summer you spent together, long before you were dating, was the first time he ever saw you in one. Riding Skarmory had drawbacks in the scorching heat, so you were in the garden, cooling her down under a hose and playing with her in the shade of the largest tree. You had not considered it; this state was second nature for you. The plan had been just to hang out, then venture out a little later in the evening, but he had come by in a black t-shirt and loose pants, and if he was uncomfortable in that much, it was overridden the moment he got a good look at you.

These days, you wear one to match the atmosphere. Your home is traditional and your upbringing was the same; wearing modern clothing was still something you begrudged, at that time. So when he asked, "Why are you wearing that??" as if it were scandalous, you blinked owlishly, because he had also had a traditional upbringing, and you were ignorant to his self-consciousness of body image.

You had not understood. It was a fundoshi; why was he being prude?

In the present, it's like a weapon and occasionally you use it as one. Now when he was over during the warmest months, you dress lightly, bearing some form of modesty, because you respect and love him and his. (Not that it ever stopped any action. You both were young and supercharged with emotions and hormones; clothing was a hamper in most cases should the atmosphere set itself.) But sometimes, there are things you desire, and you forgo modesty for the sake of your selfishness.

He's the one with exclusive rights to your body and you 'prancing around as naked as a child' now makes him uncomfortable in different ways, despite now generally desensitized to the knowledge you have no qualms showing off nearly everything from the neck down with no regard to others. And you _like_ making him uncomfortable when that mood is on the horizon, because he will touch you if you manage to hook him, and you like that.

Except you tend to spend the days in the garden under the eaves of the nure'en, where the winds blow better, and you like daring him, enticing him, even when it's honestly too hot for the exertion of full course sex. But in some way it's important, and today you know the house is empty.

He kisses your neck as you toss his shirt aside, landing over the side and dropping into the dirt. His hand is pushing at the opposite shoulder, pinning it to the wall, and the heat in both burns you. You dig your fingers into his hair, free of the headband currently caught somewhere inside his top, and you sigh as your skin is gently sucked at. Your breath isn't the only one reaching out, and his exhales are teasing your nape and striking your shivers out of the fleshy anvil where saliva lingers. The scorch of his tongue curls your toes, and you want him to hurry; the day isn't getting any cooler (and this is going to kick-start the heavy perspiration).

"No," he says, in contradiction to his actions as he hunches to plant a lick on your sternum. You scoot forward and it's awkward for your body, but he follows and shifts and stretches out, his hand coming off your shoulder to further support his own weight. He licks long, broad strokes, and the fiery trail is chased by the chill, the mix of sensations causing a hiss to escape. You laugh, quietly, to cover it up, and it quickly turns into a breathy, long-drawn sigh, because he has got your nipple between his lips. It's a nice enough feeling, but he is only there long enough to be positive it has hardened, and it's the same quick treatment on the other, before it is back to trailing downward.

"Yes," you whisper as his tongue hits the top of the only fabric you're wearing, and you find yourself having a moment of unwanted patience as he adjusts himself further to the angle, sliding backwards. _Soclosesofar,_ your brain goes in that split second, and your second brain agrees more urgently than you allow yourself, impatient and tightening in the anticipation.

The moment his attention is back on you is the moment you let your head fall back and your mouth fall open, feeling more the heat than the dampness of a flat tongue swiping over the bulge in the fundoshi. Your hips refuse to remain still, and they chase his mouth when he fractionally pulls away, because what you want is not the burn of summer, but the burn of his swallow. You want him to pull out your eager erection and tame it into full hardness, and you want him in full command of your pleasure, lest you tighten your fingers into a vice on his hair and take charge yourself. (He would find that interesting, to say the least.)

Your thighs are as open as you can make them, knees drawn and feet planted. He's still on his hands and knees and the only place he's touching you is your clothed crotch. Which is fine, but.... You release his hair and forward shift again (no longer against the wall; he follows you backwards) and you're on one elbow digging into the wood making it possible to reach out and claw at one thigh, for the sensation and hopefully the encouragement. He peers up in amusement, but it changes nothing as he continues to mouth at you (the touch of teeth) and yeah, that's great, but impatience for skin-contact was ugly and dirty and if you have to play dirty, so be it.

He's lapping at your tip and god, that feels good, but you trail your hand inward until your thumb brushes his cheek and he's watching that side. You dip lower, behind his chin (briefly palming your balls) and you have just a chance to push aside the twist of cloth near your perineum before he gets what you're doing. He grabs your hand to stop you.

"No," he rasps, and he places your hand over your cock, which you conform to instantly. Holds your hand there and leans over to suck and bite at your thigh. Your head rolls back with a throaty noise, and you rub and stroke yourself slowly, under his guidance. There are going to be blatant marks on your skin and you don't care; you will be admiring them when you're alone, touching them and remembering.

He unexpectedly knocks your hand away and pulls aside the fundoshi and his fingers rub gently at your foreskin, shallow calluses a subtle sensation, before drawing your erection out into the open air. Your legs jerk to close in instinct--to cover up, to hide, from all the invisible eyes watching--but they fall back open quick enough of their own regard. And finally, you are subject to the unhampered heat of his breath for a fleeting moment before he takes pity, and he presses his lips and the tip of his tongue against the ridge of your head.

"Yes," you groan, louder than intended, and you drop onto your back and finally give up: he has you where you want him to be, and as long as he doesn't tease mercilessly (god forbid), you're free to fall apart under him.

He has a grip on the base of your shaft and he's pumping lazily to match the pace he mouths at you. You relish in it, and you squirm eagerly. He scoffs lightly and removes his hand to grip your thigh, and you try to behave, but he licks up the underside along the ridge roughly, and you _shudder_ and whine, and your nails scratch along the polish wood of the engawa.

He does it again, and you do it again.

Of course you move too much, regardless. You don't think about it except if it will make him swallow you, and when he removes himself from you, you have no time to ask or even protest before he puts his hands on your hips and crowds in against you, his body flush with yours, his crotch flush with yours, and his eyes are at your level, focused only on you at every point of contact. You find it in yourself to smirk to enflame him.

"No," he says sternly, and you exhale sharply as he rolls his hips to grind down, rough material of his khakis offering the friction you crave. You reach down with one hand to grab over his own, and you reach up with the other to grip his nape, and he's an obedient servant because he lets you and loves you. And you make sure he's watching as you lick your lips and moan from deep in your throat, because you want to tell him how makes you feel (how he _always_ makes you feel)...and maybe it will sweet talk him back into blowing you.

He instead dives down to claim your open mouth, and you kiss him back with equal fervor. You whimper and he groans as your bodies follow suit, you wriggling while he thrusts down. It's hot, you're shaking, and you're pressed into the floor unfairly, and just as swiftly, he wrenches away and swings himself backward, back to how he sat before. His unrestrained hand unlatches from your waist and licks the palm broadly and wetly. Fuck--

"Yes!" you shout, as his hand reaches down to fist your cock again and he's bending over to finally engulf you, all wet and soft and on fire. You grab at his hair as he bobs and sucks, the burn chars your nerves to ashes, never mind you know he can go deeper. You know he can, you've seen him, you'd _made_ him.

You pant noisily and your chest heaves, and it does not register when he removes his hand from your shaft or when the weight on your hip increases, just that you're closer to catching your orgasm and you chase it blindly for who knows how long. You call his name and you beg, beg for the eruption please oh please let you come please coming coming--

You inhale as the white spots fade, and you _breathe_. A hand is on yours and you look down; he reminds you your hand is in his hair and you let go apologetically. He grins and kisses your wrist. With a groan, you prop yourself up, fully intending to get upright, but you don't make it that far, because you were also in the middle of beckoning him closer to repay the favor, but you catch sight of his crotch, and his hand is already there.

And his body language suggests it's unnecessary.

"No," you accuse with disbelief.

"Yes," he confirms, smiling sheepishly and holding out his hand as proof. And it's proof enough. Before he can do anything to the evidence, however, you grab his hand and bring it to your mouth.

His eyes alight with the mellow look of predation that only he can manage, that always sends fluttering shocks in your stomach, just as you suck his fingers clean. He lunges forward to kiss you, brushing aside your hair from your face and gripping the back of your head. His tongue is in your mouth and you're not shy in greeting it or sharing the taste of the sampled in exchange for your own. You could kiss him forever (and the fact you want to is telling).

He criticizes you for your choice of location. You grin, kiss his nose (salty), and remind him he started it, which is a fact of convenience, because yes, you seduced him on purpose, and he knows it. Just once outside, you wanted, and you have learned your lesson (the openness is exciting, but do not attempt again without cushioning).

It's still warm out and empty inside. Clothes get readjusted for modesty, and nothing is put back on, choosing instead to remain lying on the engawa as is (a little longer on the wood is okay, you suppose). You nose at his bare shoulder and curl up into his side, and he rubs your arm. You're both sweating, and the next stop once you're up is probably a cool bath (one Gengar will inevitably crash; all the respect in the world for its master but mischief is hard to resist). Yes, a bath was in order.

But right now? No.


End file.
